


Sweet You Rock

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Post-Chosen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were bound to collide eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet You Rock

Andrew rented a lot of movies, towards the end of high school. One of those things where he sort of wished someone would come and watch them with him. Once or twice, Jonathan did, but mostly not. Maybe if he'd had something closer to porn. But, not so much. Just 'Reality Bites', over and over. He thought it'd be nice, to live in a shared space like that. A bunch of people who actually liked each other.

 

He's too young to remember grunge as anything but a blip in his childhood, but he felt sometimes, watching the movie, like it was a form of cool he could almost have achieved, maybe.

 

He had a couple of plaid shirts, shoved in the back of his closet, but it'd already passed him by.

 

He's thinking about it tonight. Midwinter in north Texas, hunting, and it's actually pretty cold. Andrew went out without a sweater or gloves, and by two in the morning he shivered so hard the others could hear his teeth rattle. He tried to raise the runes marked into a tarpaper shack and his hands shook too hard for the power to focus. Kennedy's eyes on him, furious and impatient.

 

Xander dragged him down. Trapped Andrew's hands inside his and blew on them. Pulled his own sweater off, finally, and put it on Andrew instead. Locked both arms around him until Andrew stopped shaking.

 

"Can you do it now?"

 

"Yeah."

 

Easy. Soft, chalk-bright marks on the wall, edge of a demon's range. Someone summoned it, a long time ago, then didn't send it back. But if he just changes a few details . . .

 

"It's gone."

 

Kennedy eyes him. "We'll see."

 

He knows, though. He could feel the demon go down. Kennedy doesn't always get that he's *good* at this. He's not a wizard the way Willow is, but it doesn't change his power.

 

*

 

This motel. They're packed into one room, with him and Xander on one bed and Kennedy on the other one. Narrow little cots, and Xander's a big guy, and sometimes Andrew just. Wonders. Like he used to pretend about stuff like this when he was a kid, but even in Mexico, he and Jonathan kept their distance from each other. Xander sleeps like a guy used to claiming his space in a bed; Andrew sleeps around him.

 

They daysleep. Beat-up station wagon runs them city to city through the plains. Andrew warded it the first night, and nobody touches it. Usually, when they're all in a room, either he or Xander takes the floor. Today, though, it's cold, even in daylight, and there aren't enough blankets for one of them to relocate.

 

Sleeping's not easy. Mostly, he drifts, hanging on the edge of the bed, dreams he falls onto Xander and wakes up hard. The bathroom's away down the hall, shared and dirty, but he has to *do* something if he's ever going to rest. Kennedy wants to hunt again tonight.

 

Socks and boots, his boxers and Xander's sweater. Bare bulb and a single mirror. He's so *hard*, has to do something or he'll never sleep. He's so tired. So. Tongue-slick hand, cock out through the boxers' flap, fast and hard. Trying hard not to think about anything in particular, but the sweater smells like Xander, bright and sharp like a boy who's been wearing it for a couple of days. Male. Just this tiny flash of Xander kissing him, maybe just on the forehead, and that's all it takes. Comes in his hand, rinses it away in the filthy sink.

 

His hand's on the knob of their room's door when he realizes there's some on the hem of the sweater. No idea what he's going to do about it for a second, but when he rubs at it, the spot vanishes. The smell's all over him, but he can't ever seem to make that go away.

 

Crawls back into bed, too aware of his cold skin and Xander's warmth.

 

"Hey."

 

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

 

"Something up?"

 

"No. I just had to, um. Bathroom."

 

"Gotcha. No more pre-bedtime cocoa for you."

 

It throws him off for a minute. Andrew's almost used to eating breakfast for supper; he likes the diner breakfasts they get. No coffee for any of them, but the hot chocolate helps him sleep. "Then, um. No coffee for you in the morning?"

 

"See, that doesn't work. So obviously you're not awake. Lie down before I turn into Iceman, okay?"

 

He burrows, as close to the edge of the bed as he can safely get without falling.

 

"I don't bite. Got over that habit in the third grade. Will's still got a couple of scars, but she doesn't hold them against me anymore."

 

"I'm okay."

 

"You're looking kinda like we're anti-magnetic there."

 

"Reverse polarities."

 

"Sure. Come *on*." One big hand wraps around Andrew's wrist and pulls him toward the middle of the bed. "Try to sleep without freezing to death, okay? You die, we gotta find a new wizard somewhere."

 

It's like there's more gravity at the bed's centre. He can roll into it and lie there, immobile under the heavy covers and eventually wrapped in Xander's sprawling arm. These moments in the night when he knows Xander's everywhere around him.

 

*

 

In Oklahoma, he wakes in bright sunlight in the back seat of the car. He remembers summoning and binding ghosts, this town all haunted for hundreds of years and dirty little incest secrets written all over the street. He was cold. It's winter, and the wind was blowing. There was dust in his hair and his eyes, and the ghosts were sucking away his body heat, and he bound them, and. What? It's been hours, maybe most of a day. Their stuff's all in the trunk, it must be, because he's curled up on the seat with just some clothes under his head and Xander's jacket thrown over him.

 

Kennedy watches him in the rearview mirror. It's been almost three months since she came back from England, without Willow. Andrew thinks Kennedy knows he wasn't sorry. Willow scares him in ways that aren't ever going to fade. Sometimes he has to finger his skin at night to remind himself that it's still attached.

 

Xander hands him a Mountain Dew and a couple strands of shoelace licorice.

 

This second of fingers in his hair, tugging on his bangs.

 

*

 

He falls hard, loses all his breath, and stays exactly where he is, because he's sure if he just waits the air will come back. Right there on the ground while Kennedy comes over him, sword and stake in hand, and does her thing. Most of the blood flies away from him, and he's grateful.

 

In amongst all the screaming, he's actually thinking about different ways he might order his eggs for supper.

 

After that, in the quiet, he thinks for a while about cocoa, and whether to get the whipped cream on it if it's only the kind from a can.

 

Still looking for his lungs when Xander's hand wraps around his and hauls him to his feet. "You okay?"

 

"Am I dead?"

 

"I'll check." Both Xander's hands on his shoulders while the man looks him over, quietly laughing at him. Quick dust-off and a little there-you-are clap on the arms. "Nope, you're not dead."

 

"I wasn't sure."

 

"Take my word for it. You're one hundred percent Xander-certified living. Warm skin, heartbeat, breathing, the whole deal."

 

"Thank you."

 

He gets this huge Xander-smile in return. Hands back on his shoulders, his face, and Xander leans in and. Oh. Xander backs off after the kiss, claps him on the arms again, says, "Any time."

 

*

 

There are times when it's easier. The five-hour in-car debate regarding whether the Joker would be happy if Batman died. Kennedy drugged herself into sleep after an hour of it. Andrew drove. Xander could have. These flat roads don't hold any surprises, even for a man with failing depth perception.

 

Or watching Xander do pirate impressions for days after they caught the matinee showing of "Pirates of the Caribbean". Debating the relative importance of Will Turner and his impressiveness compared with, say, Princess Leia. The six other afternoons they gave up sleeping to see the movie again.

 

The odd time they're watching TV, healing, and Andrew presses himself against Xander's side and Xander lets him. Doesn't ask anything or push, even when Andrew turns and maybe pushes his face against Xander's neck.

 

*

 

They've looped back into the Texas panhandle. Daylight for a change, all of them crashed in an abandoned farmstead out of the wind. Andrew's alone with his books and a couple of berries-of-the-woods scented candles he bought in Tulsa. Three days ago Kennedy broke all her ribs fighting, and he's starting to get that having the power of the Slayer in these girls still might not be enough to hold everything back.

 

Digging his nails into real power for the first time in more than a year. Calling to it. Sink into the sticky blackness, find the ones he needs to talk to, make the right deals. A couple of little tattoos on parts of his body that don't show much. It hurts, a lot. Tears streaming down his face by the time he breaks the circle and walks outside. Crouches in the lee of the outhouse and sobs.

 

But the next time a half-dozen vamps come at Xander, Andrew's ready. There's power in his fingertips, enough to crack their skin and turn them into dust without stake or sunlight. He's proud of that.

 

Voices at the edge of his ear, telling him how much more he could do, if he'd give just a little more of himself away.

 

It's better. Faster, brighter, sharper. They win more, and it hurts less, and Kennedy doesn't sound so awful when she's got enough phone card minutes and spends them all in one long call to Willow. Xander stands up in the evening with a big, crooked grin that isn't at all fake.

 

One more tattoo, marked in places he hasn't thought about since Warren died. It makes Xander walk a little taller, move a little less uncertainly. Just this tiny, tiny trade-off.

 

Bright after their battles. He turns to Xander with his whole face lit up, leans in and kisses him, and he's so *happy*.

 

His knees give very, very slowly.

 

*

 

Ice cold, wrapped in everything they have, in a Texas bed.

 

Women's voices around him are very far away.

 

He only hears Xander once.

 

"Get up."

 

*

 

It's like being at the swap-meet part of a con. Careful treasures in mylar. Glittering things at the edges of his sight.

 

*

 

He wakes up curled in a ball, far away from the pillows. Dr Phil's on TV, giving what's probably good advice, but which sounds like sweet-voiced agony at the moment.

 

"You're back."

 

"Yeah. Where did I go?"

 

"To hell, for a bit. Why'd you think you were a magical garage sale?"

 

Andrew shrugs. He's cold and hungry and aching like he hasn't had a shower in years. He pulls himself together enough to stand up and stagger to the bathroom. Xander doesn't follow him.

 

He's clean and feeling for stubble, staring in the mirror, when he puts it together. Walks back out with one towel around his waist and the other around his shoulders. "What did you pay for me?"

 

"Nothing important."

 

"You bought my *soul*."

 

"Demons are cheap dates?"

"I made those deals. I know what they were worth."

 

Xander sighs. Rubs the heel of his hand into his one good eye. Blinks like it's harder to focus, which it probably is. If all of Andrew's here, what he bought must be gone.

 

"I had some stuff, in a storage locker outside Sunnydale. So it made it through."

 

"What am I worth?"

 

"At the going rate? Jabba's pleasure barge with Jabba and pet, out of the box but mostly unplayed with. A handful of 'Avengers West Coast' comics. Some hentai I had to go to Houston for."

 

Andrew blinks. His head spins for a while, mostly not in a Linda Blair kind of way, hard enough to force him to sit down. "Wow."

 

Xander grins a little crookedly. "Don't do that again, okay? I'm gonna miss those comics."

 

Too much to think about for a while. Andrew sits in his half-wet towels for a while, then rolls himself back into the bedding.

 

An hour later, he says, "I could . . ."

 

"You don't have to."

 

"I know."

 

Pulls himself up and kneels at Xander's feet. Thinks about every piece of hentai he's ever seen and tries to imagine how he's supposed to do this. Then leans in and nuzzles at Xander's fly.

 

He's never. He's seen all the requisite geek-boy porn, both live-action and hentai, and it's probably not good that right now all the images he can summon are animated. Something from maybe 'Cowboy Bebop', putting the man with an eye patch at the centre of his universe.

 

There are obvious things he needs to do. Get the zipper down. Touch. He buries his face in Xander's leg, breathes and nuzzles. Gentle fingers touch the back of his head. He's imagined this a half-dozen times in the bathrooms of different motels. Tongue over his teeth, breathing deep as he can. Wraps his mouth around it.

 

Xander makes a sound that's not quite a growl, just a dark chest-noise, and cards Andrew's hair with his fingers. Steady there, stroking him while he licks his way down. Wanted this all those nights and now he's only pathetically grateful. For Xander, for his soul, for the cock in his mouth. Little press of his tongue and breath and he can press it against his soft palate, suck hard, and *that* earns him a real growl.

 

Sucking until he can't breathe and has to pull back and stroke, lick the head and rub his cheek against it. He goes back down when he thinks he can, nose buried in boxer-flannel. Brings his arms up across Xander's thighs, half a hug, maybe the first he's ever initiated.

 

Feels so good. He always, really, knew he'd love this.

 

Soft fingertips tracing his ears. "Feels really good. Um, I'm going to . . ."

 

Faster than he expected; he winds up with it in his mouth when Xander comes. Can't swallow fast enough, chokes, winds up coughing and half-collapsed on the carpet.

 

"Sorry." Very sheepish Xander-smile.

 

"S'okay." The way he wipes his mouth could, with some practice, be manly, at least in an I-survived-life-in-Oz kind of way.

 

He takes the glass of water that Xander hands him, and the half-flat can of coke that follows it. Swirls the soda around in his mouth, half-wishing it'd mask the taste, half not wanting it to. Thinks maybe he wants to do that again.

 

"You going to sleep down there?"

 

"How long've I been asleep? What day is it?"

 

"Thursday. Today is Thursday." Delivered in a perfect 60s British accent.

 

Andrew crawls straight up Xander and kisses him. Pushes him back on the bed, straddles his waist, and kisses him again. Raw worship in him, and he's so *happy*. Like maybe Xander is the only other person on earth who watched "The Prisoner" on DVD thoroughly enough to be able to quote random lines from it.

 

Warms hands on his hips, pushing his own boxers down. Xander rubs Andrew's belly, strokes down to his cock. Wraps a hand around it and jerks him, and kisses him and laughs at him. Clamps onto him when he comes and rolls him down and kisses Andrew's forehead, just once.

 

They're curled on the bed, boxers on and shirts off, covers kicked down around their knees, when Kennedy comes in. Peels her shirt off and kicks her shoes into the corner and crawls into the other bed. Big girl eyes watching him in the curtained half-light.

 

"You guys good, then?"

 

Xander says, "Yep."

 

"Andrew, there's a bookstore a couple of blocks from here that's got arcane stuff. I think you should check it out before we leave."

 

"Mmmph."

 

"What's with him?"

 

"Sex stupid."

 

Kennedy grins, mutters something about putting it in her next letter to Giles. Andrew burrows deeper into Xander's chest and ignores her.

 

*

 

It's not any different, really. It gets colder before it gets warmer, and they spend nights in the car, shivering and waiting and watching and hunting. The books he buys are good, but they're old, and it's going to be years before Andrew can do everything they'll teach him.

 

This days in the car, moving, leaning against Xander's arm. They've sung the Scoobie Doo song five times in two days, and they can almost whistle the Star Wars theme in harmony. They're working on it.

 


End file.
